Districtus
by Cassie Jamie
Summary: Speedle Angst. SI, Cursing, general unhappiness.


Disclaimer: I don't own them.  Yeah.

Rating: PG-13  
Note: Yeah…I was writing this the night I watched **Body Count** and been tweaking it, but since I've started writing the next chapters of _Ancillae_ I decided to remove this from my hard drive.  Hopefully this is will get continued.  I'll keep working on it on the side (along with _Solace_.)

-*-*-

Districtus

-*-*-

            "What's the matter, Tim?" She asks, sitting safe behind her desk while writing down something on a white legal pad, something he knows will end up in his thick, heavy file.

            "Nothing."

            The brunette sighs, looks up and leans back in her plush black-leather chair, "That's not what Lieutenant Caine **and** Detective Duquesne have told me."

            "They don't know what they're talking about." He snaps back like the crunch-crunch of an alligator when it chomps on bone, when it drags someone under the water even as people dislocate shoulders to help.

            "Seems to me that they did know.  You haven't said more than a handful of sentences since you walked in, which you don't do unless you're incredibly upset."

            Tim Speedle shifts in his seat uncomfortably, though the piece of furniture is comfy and top-of-the-line.  He hates when Tori does this.  When she finds out about a case and demands to see him, expecting him to spill all his thoughts though he'd rather just go.  Drink.  Sleep.

            Forget.

            Forget about all the little cards in life that he's been dealt from the neglect of his domineering parents, to the loss of Matthew when they were barely adults; from the sting of not knowing his brother like he should, to the hasty exit of his mentor on one balmy South Florida day.

            Still, it's his badge and gun if he doesn't do this, as he's already been told by his boss, his coworkers, even the fucking lab techs.  So he parts his lips and speaks.

            "Whattaya wanna know?" He challenges; she knows no matter what he says, it'll be a lie.

            "What happened with this last case would be a nice start." She implores.

            Speed summarizes, "Murderer.  Surprise, surprise.  Killed his kids and his wife.  He decided to run from us once we found him.  Went straight for swamp and an alligator came after him.  Guy died.  Good riddance."

            He conveniently leaves off how he dove in to the murky waters to retrieve the suspect amid the screams from Calleigh and orders from his superior.  He now has a healthy respect for the reptilian wild life in the Florida wetlands, however, and he thinks that's something.

            "Your boss says you didn't sleep last night.  And you avoided the break room when he brought in breakfast and lunch.  Calleigh said you missed dinner yesterday as well."

            He loathes when people pick at his habits, "I wasn't hungry." He says through clenched teeth, annoyed and angry, "I wasn't hungry and I knew if went near that room one of them was going to try to feed me."

            She sees the etch on his features and prods, "You're already underweight."

            "By ten pounds!" He screeches, "It's not like two years ago when I was fifty under."

            "Ten's enough.  You lose half a pound more and you understand I'll have to put out a recommendation that you be placed back into the Anorexia Nervosa program at the hospital." She throws back, and he huffs at her, "Now.  You weren't hungry?" She peeks an eyebrow at him.

            He sneaks fingers beneath his sleeve, scratch at the drum-skin tautness and feels some slick substance beneath the pad of his thumb.  He's sure it's the sharp wetness only blood provides.  "Why is it impossible to believe that I wasn't hungry?" He seethes, chokes back what he really wants to say to woman.

            "Because you're hungry, Tim.  I can see it when I offered you the jellybeans to you before that you are.  Probably have been for days."

            He slams a hand down on the arm of his chair and yelps when the scratches contact his sleeve fabric.  Yelps not from the pain, but from the sudden pleasure.

            Tori's in his vision, as she takes his hand and pushes back his sleeve, "Damnit.  You're supposed to keep your fingernails trimmed!" She scolds, and puts a tissue to Speed's wounds, sops up the trickling blood.

            "I usually do, but I didn't have time with the case…" The endorphin rush relaxes him and he allows the woman to continue.

-*-*-

            Calleigh watches when Speed leaves, his therapist holding his hand and all but dragging him to their boss's office.  She knows he's about to be reprimanded or suspended or, worse yet, fired.  Still, she wonders if it isn't such a bad thing for him to take time off.

            Eric, though, knows time away from the lab won't be helpful.  Extra time will only result in things unhealthy, and he knows from experience.  He knows from the scars on his belly and thighs and in between his toes.

            The two go back to work on the blood evidence they'd gotten at their new crime scene.

            And Tim is marched into Horatio's office; the redhead looks up from his paperwork and the disappointment in the cobalt-blue eyes is heartbreaking to the younger.

            Tori explains in concise sentences the episode in her office.  No details about their conversation, just raw facts about the bandage now warming him arm.  Then sits her patient down on the black couch and leaves, so Horatio can talk to his subordinate in peace, though she's just beyond the door.

            "What do you want me to do?"

            The brunet turns away, "Dunno." He replies, not letting his gaze wander from the floor and then replies dully, "Let me keep working?"

            "I can't do that, buddy."

            "Yes, you can.  You just don't put in the paperwork." Speed ventures a glance at his friend, and sees that there's no way in hell that's happening, "I guess you have to suspend me then."

            Horatio sighs, feels arms go around his waist.  He's tired of this game; still he can't give up hope because he loves the idiot like a son, and it hurts him to see the suffering in the younger's eyes.  The hard sobs peel through the open windows of his office.

            "Okay, buddy." He can't say anything else.  He won't say it's okay.  He won't say things will be alright eventually.

            He doesn't know if they ever will be.  Even months after the dispo day, weeks after the prison break, he doesn't know.  Because humans are fickle and inherently evil even though their outward appearance often says they're kind.

            The tears stem off; the older's shirt is wet with the salt-droplets.  The detective's stomach growls, reminding his boss that he's starved for something to eat, and the native New Yorker groans at the sound.

            Wordlessly, Caine rubs Tim's back through the thin Sex Pistols shirt, until the stomach noises come again, "Let's go get you something to eat."

            "No." Sniffles.

            "You're mistaking that for a question." He hopes that a lighter tone will reduce resistance, before moving back and looking at the now-drying patch.  He sighs, grabs his sunglasses and his keys.

            And when he turns around, his subordinate is gone.  He curses in his mind.

            Then hears the sounds of heated conversation outside his door, sees the urge to flee in the chocolate eyes.  He jogs the few feet to the therapist and her patient.

            "Tim." He coaxes, "Stop fighting with Tori, okay?  And listen to me." The gazes match and the elder continues, "Listen.  I've got fewer options than you think.  I can't protect you for too much longer if you keep this up.  So let's go get something to eat and we'll talk and we'll figure out what to do."

            Younger nods, forces himself to be frog-marched out to the Hummer.  Clicks the belt, hears gunshots in his head and cries out as he balls up in a fetal position.

            "Speed?" The boss lays a hand on his shirt and he can't figure out what it was this time that triggered the flash of hated reality.

            "The gun." He mutters.

            He unsnaps the buckle and releases his coworker, "The rifle?" Taking the brunet into his arms.

            "I don't know how Calleigh can stand them."

            "She likes them." The redhead strokes the cheek like he does for his nephew when he's sleeping over and scared by the thunder, "Not many people do.  Makes her unique.  As you love for trace evidence makes you unique.  Or Eric for his diving."

            "Explosives and arson for you?" He asks, mumbling into the steering wheel because he can't face this person who's not boss but not a fellow detective, a friend but not one he was sibling-close with.

            "Yes." He clutches tighter, and feels the tension wash out of the limbs and back.  They both get back into the seats, and Speedle ignores the metallic sound as he complies with law.

-*-*-

            An hour later and Horatio sets down the take-out on his kitchen counter.  He fears taking Tim back to the younger's apartment, but finds that Tim quickly acquaints himself with the fridge.

            Though that's probably because the brunet hides out in the house on a nearing daily basis.  Which doesn't both the elder man in the slightest since his daughter is content with the arrangement.

            Silence while they eat, an arduous task as the younger chews his food into a pulp or plays with it.  Leaving artistic arrangements on the plate, but don't leave their mark in the stomach of the quickly-relapsing-anorexic.

            "Eat or I'm tying you to a chair and force-feeding you."

            There's no sarcasm in the statement, and Speed gives in.  He's halfway through his tuna fish salad when there's another rumble in his belly.  There's little time to get to the bathroom, so he vomits into the other CSI's hands instead.

            It smells of stomach acid and the ocean.  He hears cursing when his middle finally stops convulsing, "My fault.  I'm sorry, buddy.  I should've remembered you'd need to have something light."

            H disposes the mess and cleans up the glass dining table quickly, before he fusses through the cupboards.  Chicken broth, a bag of rice, and juice are all pulled from their places and practically thrown on the counter beside the Pepto-Bismol that had been purchased during their stop for foodstuffs.

            A few more minutes of sufferable quiet, then a dose of the pink stuff is placed under Tim's nose.  He gets a bowl of soup put down in front of him after he chokes the thick liquid back.

            "Tastes like crap."

            "So long as it does the job." He blows on the still-steaming green beans that constitute his dinner.  He renews his attentiveness to how much his young friend is getting in his mouth and to his pleasure, it's enough for one meal.  He doesn't fool himself into thinking that much will be eaten in one sitting so he understands when the half full dishware is pushed away.

            "Now.  What are we going to do?"

            Speed's tone is adamant and wistful when he replies, "Let me work."

            "There's no way I'm letting you take on another case until we've dealt with this.  You were not thinking when you jumped in after Sanchez.  You're tired and weak because you haven't had a decent meal for probably three or four days minimum."

            "Stop treating me like a fucking child." He loathes being cared for like he's three and can't take a bath by himself.

            "I'll stop when you stop needing me to do it." It's clear who's winning the argument, but there's still a crossroads ahead of them and they both want to have a bridge to walk over when it arrives.

            So there's more silence, more anxious waiting and hurried thinking.  Tim wishes vehemently that he could just rewind to the whole dispo day case, the case where his boss resigned him to therapy because a later trip to the hospital had him strip-searched for the scars of old.  Horatio wants nothing more than see his friend get better, but it isn't happening and he doesn't know what else to do.  This is the last resort.

            Finally, much needed sound as the clock chimes in the hallway and the seventeen-year old college freshman giggles as she runs into the house, "Papi?"

            "Cocina." He replies, and stands stretching while the second CSI tries to hide his bandage under the table, forgetting it's a glass top.

            The redheaded girl stumbles into the room, ignores the bandage hidden oh-so-well, then kisses the man's temple, "Hey." She brushes open-fingers through his hair and smiles warmly, before grinning hello to her father.

            "I think Speed's going to be staying with us for a few weeks.  Could you go set up his room?" He asks, answering the question from earlier.

            Gabriella nods, then goes, ever-quiet as she proceeds up the spiral staircase to find the blue sheets she knows her friend likes best.

            "You suck."

            "Language now." Caine scolds, indifferent though, and takes the dirtied items from the surface.  Dumps them into the sink, waits for his coworker to stand up, walks to the couch.  They both settle into the plush, cream fabric.

            Kneading the tired muscles in their thighs and arms, each man recedes into their own thoughts, speechless.

            Tim can't figure out what he's going to do while he's a captor of this man who's taken him under his wing.  There'll be endless therapy appointments, assuredly.  And Gab always manages to keep him occupied with computer and N64 games.  Still…it's not _his_ home; not his things, not his rules.  It's something he's just **not** used to after being on his own for so many painful years.

            Horatio sees the rippling of the skin as the other tries to relax yet can't; he slips a hand to the shaking shoulder, rubs with his thumb.

            "Thanks." Mumbled so softly it was a bare hush.

            "Tim, I'm scared, alright.  It scares me to see that this is getting worse.  It scares me that you're so thin you could fit into my daughter's clothes." He keeps running his finger on the patch of arm covered by the thin shirt to keep Speed calm, "The hospital wouldn't do you any good and I've got to keep an eye on you, so it's either you move in here where I know you're safe or I temporarily move into your apartment."

            The younger shrugs, having decided to let the redhead win because he's merely too tired to fight.  He's had to wage miniature wars with everyone since his childhood years, and the prospect of arguing again is enough to make him want to bruise and bleed until his once-well-toned body is battered beyond recognition.  But he does not want to die.

            The hand lifts and cradles the brunet's neck, causing him to curl to his boss – his fucking **boss** - as the tears threaten to fall again.

            "It's okay to need someone else to take care of you." The elder soothes, laying his other limb across his charge's skeletal back.  Feels the shake, hears not any sobs, but senses the wetness on his good Armani shirt where the salty droplets fell previously.

            Words eternal before someone adds that his parents will take him home soon, yet he does not fear that addition because he knows in his gut that Caine wouldn't allow that to happen.  He wouldn't allow Lauryn and Cesario Speedle to take away this shattered soul.

            "Papi." Gabbie floats back down the stairs, "Tired?" She asks her friend, in the unique way she perpetually speaks.

            The younger CSI nods against the lithesome chest, grounds out, "More than you will ever know."  Willing to admit it's time to give in.  His volition is flimsy as paper, his heart weary of what each coming day could possibly hold.

            Some times, he decides, it's okay to let a person hold you.

-*-*-

*v* Cassie Jamie *v*

csimiami@cassie-jamie.com


End file.
